


Bankside   (A fragment)

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love, エル･アルコン－鷹－ | El Halcon -The Falcon- (Manga), 七つの海七つの空 | Nanatsu no Umi Nanatsu no Sora | Seven Seas Seven Skies (Manga)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:04:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1593. Benedict Red visits a brothel in Bankside. Five years after Tyrian Persimmon's death, Benedict still can't get him out of his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bankside   (A fragment)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an out-take from the Benedict/Tyrian story I wrote in 2012, called "Had I as Many Souls as There Be Stars". I took it out during the writing process because it slowed down the trajectory of the story, but perhaps it can stand on its own merits. This is basically first-draft, and un-beta'd. Its many shortcomings are all mine.  
> _____________________________________________________________________

Surrounded by the noise and stink of Bankside after dark, Benedict threaded through the crowded, winding alleys. Overhead, houses leaned together across crooked, narrow streets, and putrid mud churned up by foot traffic made the going unpleasant. 

Rich men like himself lived on the other side of the Thames, where London was more spacious and comfortable. He was no stranger to Bankside, though. He came to the southern side of the river often, spending frequent afternoons at the playhouses and bear-pits, and occasional evenings seeking diversion of a different kind.

He wound through a maze of footways that were no more than gaps between the houses, and stopped at a familiar door.

He knocked, and waited.

The door cracked open a few inches; sharp eyes peered out, assessing. Recognition softened the hard gaze, and the door was opened by an overdressed woman with a matronly figure. Her extravagant jewels glittered in the candle-light; an elaborate ruff cast patterned shadows on her face as she smiled obsequiously. 

“Mistress Foster.” Benedict sketched a shallow bow.

“My lord.” The woman returned a curtsey, skirts billowing. 

Bright greedy eyes shining, Mistress Foster led him through to the inner room. His Lordship was one of her favourite customers, courteous and discreet. He paid well, and never caused trouble.

“What do you want, my lord? A woman, or a boy?” The question was always asked; the answer was always the same.

“A boy,” Benedict said, “but not too young. A man.”

“Of course, my lord. I think we can find a companion to please you.”

A door swung open. The room smelled of oranges and cloves. A jug of hot wine steamed beside the fire. Candles flickered, the light bright enough to be welcoming, but low enough to hide imperfect complexions and conceal the worn furniture. Illusion was all.

On a low bench, two women bent together over an embroidery frame, generous cleavages spilling out of their bodices. Both looked up when they saw him. The brunette smiled boldly; her blonde companion fluttered her eyelashes and pouted. At the other side of the room, a red-headed lad of about fourteen lounged on a seat by the fireplace, and next to him, a young man dressed in an ornate green doublet leaned against the mantelpiece. He was tall and slender, with hair that fell in a thick black curtain almost to his waist. 

_That hair!_ Benedict wanted to thread his fingers through that hair, coil it around his hands.

Mistress Foster frowned at the red-headed boy, who immediately sat up straighter and chased the boredom from his face. She turned to Benedict. “I’ll call my other lads in, my lord, so you can choose.”

“No need.” Benedict nodded toward the young man in green. “I’ll have him.”

 

Smiling, the young man led the way upstairs to a chamber. Soft lamplight filled the room; a fire crackled in the grate. 

“Take off your doublet and shirt,” Benedict ordered.

The young man complied, still smiling. Benedict looked him over critically. Handsome. Not too feminine. Too thin; his shoulders too narrow. And his eyes were wrong. Brown. But the flawless skin had a slight olive cast, and the hair—

“Are you Spanish?” Benedict asked abruptly. 

“No, my lord. My mother was Italian.” 

The question had sounded curt, the answer conciliatory. Few people would admit to being Spanish in these troubled times. If he was lying, it was no matter. 

“What’s your name?”

“Matteo.”

Circling behind him, Benedict combed his fingers through the heavy black hair, feeling its weight and softness.

“What do you want, my lord?” Matteo asked softly.

Benedict’s hands stilled on Matteo’s shoulders in a firm, possessive grip. “I want you to fuck me. Hard. Hard as you can. Be rough. I want to feel your hair against my skin when you fuck me.” His grip tightened. “And then, I will fuck you.” 

 

They lay naked on the wide bed. The room was comfortably warm, and the sheets were clean. Matteo stroked a soft-skinned hand lightly down Benedict’s flank. Benedict seized the young man’s wrist, frowning. 

“No,” he said sternly. “No gentleness. Be forceful.”

Summoning up his strength, Matteo seized Benedict by the shoulder and turned him over roughly, manhandling him into a submissive posture, pinning him down with a knee at the base of his spine. Bending forward, he let his long hair brush against the naked back. 

Ecstasy blossomed on Benedict’s face as the heavy hair stroked against his skin: teasing, soothing, arousing. He kept his eyes closed. He did not want to see that the face above him was not the face he saw in his mind. 

When Matteo entered him roughly, a cry of pure joy escaped Benedict’s lips. They struggled together, panting with effort, thrusting and shoving. Sweat gathered on their skin, slicking the places where their bodies rubbed together. Grunting, Benedict pushed back against Matteo, urging him on wordlessly. Matteo seized a handful of Benedict’s hair, pulling his head back viciously – and Benedict came with a startled cry.

Carefully, Matteo pulled out and sat back, watching Benedict warily. It was at this point that customers sometimes lashed out at him with their fists. Benedict lay still, his breath slowing, his eyes closed. Bruises were already beginning to show on his skin. He lay there for several minutes, then got up and washed himself in the basin of water beside the fireplace. Throwing the towel into the corner, he turned to look at Matteo, who sat compliantly on the bed, waiting.

“Lie on the bed. Face down,” Benedict directed.

Matteo lay down, expecting to be treated harshly, and he hoped it would not last long. When a customer’s preference was for rough sex, it often meant days without further earnings while he recovered. 

He was surprised when Benedict settled on the bed beside him and, with careful hands, began to caress his back and shoulders in long sweeping strokes. Sensitive fingers probed Matteo’s body delicately, soothing and relaxing him. Benedict took him with care, allowing passion to build slowly, and when he came, he buried his face in Matteo’s hair and softly whispered a name. Matteo didn’t hear what it was.


End file.
